From “The Obscure Lives of Poets”

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
—Wordsworth, to the leech-gatherer


Three, no, four, that I know, married women
of means and brains. One grew moss on her tongue, waking from
            dreams that smelled
of mildew or hoary socks on a smothering train.
One turned to falconry and the construction of seed bombs to be
            dropped from three-
story houses. One burned her burka upon being released
from prison for the fourth time shamed so down deep in her
            molested self, washed
henceforth in formal darkness, another burned
her wedding dress in a fire pot while house finches splashed in
            the birdbath. [how one

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